


Cracks

by krazykitkat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krazykitkat/pseuds/krazykitkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s not her fault,” he says. “Or yours.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracks

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Cracks  
> Author: Kat/krazykitkat  
> Type / Pairings: General, vague hint of Weir/Sheppard  
> Rating: General  
> Spoilers: None  
> Beta: Much thanks to mandysbitch and anr. Any remaining problems are most definitely mine.  
> Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and its characters are the property of various companies and peoples that aren’t myself. No Copyright Infringement is intended.  
> Author's Notes: Set after “The Brotherhood” (s1). This has been sitting on my computer in varying forms since 2005. With the show finished, it’s probably time it saw the light of day. Liz and John are getting sick and tired of my fiddling.  
> Originally posted 2009.

You stare at the map on the computer screen, searching for a solution among the pixels. It’s already out of date, the distance between the Wraith fleet and Atlantis shrinking by the hour.

You count the worlds in their path, make an estimate of how many are inhabited. You feel the bile rise in the back of your throat.

Swallowing hard, you reach across your desk for the pitcher of water and the back of your hand knocks the urn John gave you.

You aren’t fast enough to prevent its fall.

*

You should’ve locked the door; not that it would’ve kept him out for long after he’d been in your office. You should’ve hidden the evidence.

He enters the lab and spots you sitting in the window recess. Concern lines his face. Drawing on your years of diplomacy, you force a smile. “Major.”

He returns the smile. “Doctor Weir, I presume.”

You’re a master at tap-dancing around the proverbial gorilla, but you also know when to get straight to the point. “I’m sorry about the--”

He waves off your apology. “It’s just chipped,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows slightly. “It used to be a pot and lid.”

“There might be a few extra pieces.” He crosses the room and sinks to the floor an arm’s length away. “Nothing some glue can’t fix.”

You could tell him to go, order him if necessary, but he can out-stubborn you when he’s worried. You haven’t got the strength for a fight right now. You draw your knees up to your chest. “Is there something I can do for you, John?”

“No.”

He’s silent for several minutes. You can almost imagine you’re alone again, except for his elbow bumping your ankle as he shuffles closer, and the lower octave of his breathing.

“It’s not her fault,” he says. “Or yours.”

You nearly turn the statement on him, but there’s already enough guilt in the room. You don’t need your senior military officer slipping back into his nightmares. Not now.

You focus on the wall opposite.

“We can stop them,” he continues.

You laugh at his confidence. “And I thought I was supposed to be the optimistic one.”

“Elizabeth.”

You want to demand that he use your title, accuse him of disrespect. Maybe if you were someone else (not her).

He turns and reaches up to touch your forearm. You jerk away.

You try to regain your equilibrium, but your head’s too heavy and you slump back against the window, your eyes screwed shut as you wish yourself ten thousand years in any direction.

“You didn’t tell her,” he says.

You sigh a little too loudly. There’s no point in pretending you don’t know what he means. “She didn’t need to know.”

“She would have wanted to.”

“And you knew her so well.” You open your eyes. “She didn’t need to know the mistake she made.”

His eyes flash with hurt (and guilt). He's caught the implication.

He masks his vulnerability with his military face. “I’m not going to be sorry for being alive.”

“Maybe I am.” And you don’t know who you’re referring to anymore.

You push yourself up, walk over to the central control panel, and press your palms against its surface. “She only delayed the inevitable.”

“We’re not going to die,” he says. “Again.”

You hear him come up behind you, until he’s as close as he can be without touching. You’re caught between wanting to lean back and accept the comfort of his arms around you, and waves of claustrophobia.

You need to focus on something, but the only thing in front of you is the chamber. Her coffin in life, if not death.

Too many funerals because of you.

“I should have gone back to Earth with the Ancients.” You don’t recognise your voice.

“I’m glad she didn’t.”

“The galaxy won’t agree,” you whisper.

He places his hand on your shoulder. You don’t look at him as your muscles tense under his touch.

“The Wraith would’ve woken up eventually,” he says.

“Maybe. But in saving a few, I--” You shake your head before lowering it. “She didn’t need to know.”

“It’s done,” he replies. “We stop them from reaching Earth. Then we go on the offensive here.”

You want to question his priorities, but you want to be alone more. You take in a deep breath and straighten your body in an attempt to summon some of your command presence. “Well, we’re not going to be able to save the universe without some sleep.”

He drops his hand from your shoulder. “You need to forgive her. And yourself.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Major.”

You know he wants to stay, but he doesn’t fight you.

You don’t move until he’s gone. Your fingers subconsciously find the correct button on the control panel.

You approach the now-open chamber. Memories not entirely yours tickle at the edge of your senses. You stroke your fingers along its frame, hesitate for a moment and step inside.

You imagine the doors closing, entombing you. You panic, momentarily, but they remain open. You slump against the back wall and close your eyes.

You forgave her when you scattered her ashes over Atlantis -- she couldn’t have imagined the events she’d set into play -- but absolving yourself isn’t so simple. You have gone over her actions again and again, and you can’t find a point, a moment, where you’d have made a different decision.

Too many worlds of silenced screams echo in your mind as you slide to the floor. You wrap your arms around your legs, and rest your forehead against your knees.

And break just a little.


End file.
